


Only Connect

by Pattern_against_user



Category: E.M. Forster - Fandom, Howards End (1910), Howards End (1992)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4349009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattern_against_user/pseuds/Pattern_against_user
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-invisioning of the friendship between Margaret Schlegel and Mrs. Wilcox, from Mrs. Wilcox's perspective.</p><p>Pretty PG material.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i just thought this would be funny and this is probably the direction the book should have taken
> 
> this chapter is just boring set up for ppl who don't know the story thus far.

Ever since leaving Speyer, Ruth Wilcox had lived in a state of internal agitation. She had thought the return to Howards End would finally bring her peace, but even there, in her house’s sacred brick walls, she found herself jumping at shadows. She would see a figure in the corner of her eye, and for a moment, she almost believed that if she turned to face the figure directly, she would be facing one of the Schlegel sisters, with whom Ruth and her husband had parted in Germany. Of course, the figure always turned out to be something very ordinary, Mr. Wilcox’s old armchair, or the grandfather clock, or the shadow the wych-elm cast through the window.

Finally, she decided to invite the Schlegel sisters to Howards End—certainly, there was no impropriety in this. 

She wondered what the two sisters, aged eighteen and twenty-five, would have to say about the house. Ruth Wilcox had lived at Howards End all her forty-seven years, and in a sense, she had lived there for far longer. Her family had constructed the house generations ago. In her mind, Howards End stretched to infinity, and she wanted to hear the Schlegel sisters, so cultured and educated, to confirm the mysterious power of the place. 

Ruth waited their visit anxiously. Unfortunately, on the day the Wilcox family was to reunite with the Schlegel girls, only the younger sister, Helen, arrived. Apparently, Tibby Schlegel, the younger brother, had fallen ill with hay fever. Margaret had stayed in London to care for him. 

Ruth thought she would be happy that at least Helen had come. Of the two Schlegel sisters, Helen was the prettier and more charming girl. Still, Ruth found herself oddly disappointed. Things did not seem to be going the way she had pictured. Helen seemed amused with the family, but not particularly captivated by the house. 

Then of course, Ruth’s youngest son, Paul, made a muddle of the whole thing when, within a day of meeting Helen, he professed his love. The two broke the engagement the next morning, but not before Helen had telegrammed Margaret and Margaret had sent their aunt to assess the situation. After that terrible incident, there was no opportunity for recovery. Ruth knew she would never be able to call on the Schlegel sisters again.


	2. Chapter 2

Four years later, the unexpected occurred. Ruth’s husband announced that they would be staying in a cousin’s flat in London. She knew the building was just across Wickham Place, where the Schlegel family resided. Of course, Ruth never would have had the nerve herself to make their families neighbors, but as her husband commanded it, she could only comply.

Ruth waited to call on the Schlegels until after Paul departed for Nigeria. She had no intention of forcing an awkward interaction between her foolish son and the younger sister. All afternoon, she waited to hear back from the house across the way.

The reply from Number 2, Wickham Place was not favorable:

 

_Dear Mrs. Wilcox,_

_I have to write something discourteous.  It would be better if we did not meet.  Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister's case, the grounds for displeasure might recur.  As far as I know, she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son.  But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance which began so pleasantly, should end._

_I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us.  It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong.  My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong.  I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy._

_Believe me,_

_Yours truly,_

_M. J. Schlegel_

 

So Margaret suspected Ruth of coarseness, of insensitivity to the obvious impropriety of a continued acquaintance between Helen Schlegel and Paul Wilcox. So the Schlegels had that little faith in the Wilcoxes. So Margaret had that little faith in Ruth.

Ruth replied curtly,

 

_Dear Miss Schlegel,_

_You should not have written me such a letter.  I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad._

_Ruth Wilcox_

 

An hour later, Margaret Schlegel sent up her name, and Ruth invited her directly into her bedroom.

“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I’ve made the baddest blunder. I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say.” 

In the four years since they had parted, Margaret had grown a little stouter, and perhaps some of the brightness in her eyes had dulled. But there was something reassuring in all this. The twenty-nine year old looked sturdy now. She had come into herself.

“I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot,” Margaret said.

“He sailed for Nigeria on the 17th,” Ruth said.

“Nigeria. I knew—I know. I have been too absurd.”

Margaret was still rash and blustering with her speech, and yet, there was something endearing in this, the blustering of youth. Ruth wanted to say so, wanted to comfort the young woman, but she couldn’t find the words.

“I am more sorry than I can say,” Margaret said, “and I hope you can forgive me.”

“It doesn’t matter, Miss Schlegel,” Ruth said. “It is good of you to have come around so promptly.”

The two women brought each other up to date on each other’s families and the changes in their lives. Margaret explained that Helen had left for Germany, and Ruth spoke of the wedding of her older son, Charles. “His father gave him a car of his own for a wedding present which for the present is being stored at Howards End."

"I suppose you have a garage there?" Ruth asked.

"Yes.  My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the pony."

"Where's the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause.

"The pony?  Oh, dead, ever so long ago."

"The wych-elm I remember,” Margaret said.  “Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree."

"It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire.  Did your sister tell you about the teeth?"

“No.”

"Oh, it might interest you,” Ruth said.  “There are pigs' teeth stuck into the trunk, about four feet from the ground.  The country people put them in long ago, and they think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache.  The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the tree."

"I should.  I love folklore and all festering superstitions."

"Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in it?"

"Of course it did.  It would cure anything—once."

"Certainly I remember cases—you see I lived at Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it.  I was born there. You will have to see it some day, really it would be such a pleasure for me.”

Margaret said that it sounded like the sort of place that could not be properly described, only witnessed, and this was just what Ruth Wilcox felt about the place. She wanted to reach out to the young woman. Somehow, Ruth’s body stayed motionless, and Margaret was saying she had to return home. Finally, almost as instinct, Ruth took Margaret’s hand.

"Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye.  Thank you for coming.  You have cheered me up."

"I'm so glad!"

It was impossible that Margaret could understand all that Ruth felt. Unsure of what to say, Ruth blurted, "I—I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?"

Margaret blushed. "I think of nothing else.”

"I wonder.  I wondered at Heidelberg."

" _I'm_  sure!"

"I almost think—“ Ruth was not sure how to explain what she was feeling. There was a long, painful pause.

“Yes?” Margaret said.

"I almost think you forget you're a girl."

"I'm twenty-nine," Margaret said. "That not so wildly girlish."

Ruth smiled.

"What makes you say that?” Margaret asked.  “Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?"

Ruth shook her head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me both of you—read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things clearly."

"Oh, I've got it—inexperience.  I'm no better than Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her."

It was remarkable the way Margaret could put the very thing Ruth was thinking into plain words.

"You have got it,” Ruth said. “Inexperience is the word."

"Inexperience," repeated Margaret. Her hand was still in Ruth’s, and she seemed to come forward, ever so slightly. This proximity was rich. Holding Margaret's hand, Ruth felt the unseen rippling beneath the seen. Soon, she would release Margaret's hand, and the young woman would return to her home, but this instant—this brief moment of contact—was an eternity to itself. The moment was stretching towards infinity.  
  
And then it was over. Margaret's hand was sliding away. Suddenly, almost forgetting herself, or perhaps remembering herself for the first time, Ruth leaned in and pressed her lips to Margaret’s. The kiss was brief. Margaret leaned back, her eyes wide. She looked startled, but not upset.

For a moment, the two women stared at each other, each in awe of what had just occurred. Then Margaret pulled Ruth closer and kissed her. For nearly a quarter of an hour, the two women remained in the bedroom doorway, in each other’s arms. Every time one of the women began to pull away, the other kissed her even more firmly. Ruth pressed her palm to Margaret’s stomach, and Margaret guided her hand downwards, until Ruth was pressing against the vital place through the layers of skirts. Margaret gasped into her mouth. Just then, the sound of the front door opening.

The two women parted instantly.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the floor below.

“Damned Continentals,” Mr. Wilcox shouted to himself as he climbed the stairs. “Ruth, have you seen my goddamned pocketwatch.”

Finally he entered their field of vision.

“Oh! Pardon me, Miss Schlegel,” he said. “I did not know we had a visitor.”

Margaret was blushing. “I was just leaving, Mr. Wilcox. I hope you don’t think me rude, but I really am in a bit of a hurry.” She rushed past him onto the stairs.

“It was good of you to come,” Ruth cried. “I hope you will—“

But she could hear the front door close, with such finality.

“I hope I didn’t scare her off,” Mr. Wilcox said. “Ah well, those Schlegel girls are an unusual lot.”


	3. Chapter 3

After the incident, Ruth Wilcox found herself in a true muddle. She wanted to reassure Miss Schlegel that she had no expectations. They had lost themselves for a moment, and that was all there was to it. There was no reason their friendship should not continue. Ruth wanted nothing from Margaret, save to be in her presence.

It was possible that Margaret was in much the same state and was waiting for Ruth to break the silence. But Ruth had ignited the entire incident, so it seemed that she should leave it up to Margaret, whether or not they ever met again.

Ruth tried to resign herself to this, every day hoping from a message from Wickham Place. It was becoming increasingly evident that Margaret was never going to break the silence. Ruth simply had to accept this. And yet, she held on to the idea that if they ran into each other somewhere, Margaret would not be disappointed to see her. Ruth kept hoping for some happy accident to bring her into Margaret’s presence again, but fate did not bow to her secret wish.

If neither fortune nor Miss Schlegel would assist Ruth in her goal, Ruth would have to accomplish it on her own. Finally, she wrote Margaret, asking if she would like to assist her with her Christmas shopping.

Ruth was not disappointed.

Margaret arrived. She was smiling, but quickly suppressed the look. “First of all, we must make a list and tick off the people’s names. My aunt always does,” Margaret said. “Have you any ideas?”

“I thought we would go to Harrod’s or Haymarket Square,” Ruth said. “Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. Your aunt is quite right—one ought to make a list.” She hesitated. “Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at the top of the page.”

“How very kind of you to start with me!” Margaret said. She sounded less flattered than frightened. “I really don’t want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I’d rather not.”

“I didn’t mean.” But Ruth couldn’t finish the sentence.

Margaret smiled. “It’s only that I have odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I do not want more things, only—more people.”

Ruth had the intense urge to kiss her cheek, but she suppressed it. They were only just getting to be friends. She could not risk their acquaintance with another imprudent outpouring of affection. What had happened in her bedroom doorway could never happen again.

“I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel,” Ruth said.

Margaret grinned again, and suppressed her grin again, and they set off for the shops.

It was a pleasant outing, although Ruth was upset to learn that the Schlegels would soon be forced to sell Wickham Place. The family had rented it the girls’ whole lives, but now the landlords wanted to tear the house down and build flats.

"It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn't right,” Ruth said. “I had no idea that this was hanging over you.  I do pity you from the bottom of my heart.  To be parted from your house, your father's house—it oughtn't to be allowed.  It is worse than dying.  I would rather die than—Oh, poor girls!  Can what they call civilization be right, if people mayn't die in the room where they were born?  My dear, I am so sorry— Howards End was nearly pulled down once.  It would have killed me."

Margaret looked bewildered by this outpouring, but the girl gained her composure. “Howards End must be a very different house to ours,” Margaret said. “We are fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive about it.  As you saw, it is an ordinary London house.  We shall easily find another."

“So you think,” Ruth said.

“Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Margaret. "I can't say anything when you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox.  I wish I could see myself as you see me—foreshortened into a _Backfisch_.  Quite the ingénue.  Very charming—wonderfully well read for my age, but incapable—“

“Come down with me to Howards End now," Ruth said.  "I want you to see it.  You have never seen it.  I want to hear what you say about it, for you do put things so wonderfully."

Margaret glanced away. “Later on I should love to.”

Ruth’s coachman opened the door, and Margaret stepped inside the vehicle.

“But it's hardly the weather for such an expedition,” Margaret said, “and we ought to start when we're fresh.  Isn't the house shut up, too?"

Ruth said nothing.

“Might I come some other day, perhaps when your husband and sons are at Howards End? I should love to see Mr. Wilcox again. I am afraid I left a rather bad impression last time, taking off in such hurry. He must think of me as a very rude, silly girl.”

It was the first time either had referenced the incident, and it was too much to bear. Ruth tapped on the glass and shouted to the coachman, “Back to Wickham Place, please!”

Neither woman spoke for the duration of the ride. They parted at the Mansions, each thanking the other for a lovely afternoon.

In the apartment, Ruth could hardly stand still. Its room, the building, all of London was choking her, pulling at her. She needed to flee this city and return to the one place that had always been there for her.

She hurried to King’s Cross. There was a train to Hilton in five minutes, and she ordered a ticket. She left the counter and heard a familiar voice behind her. The speaker was requesting a single ticket with the same destination.

Ruth turned, and there stood the very person who had caused her so deep a pain, only an hour earlier.

“Miss Schlegel!”

“I will come if I still may,” Margaret said. She laughed nervously.

“You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the morning that my house is most beautiful. You are coming to stop. I cannot show you my meadow properly except at sunrise. These fogs”—she pointed at the station roof—“never spread far. I dare say they are sitting in the sun in Hertfordshire, and you will never repent joining them.”

“I shall never repent joining you,” Margaret said.

“It is the same.”

They began to walk the long platform. Ruth had the feeling again, of an instant stretching into the eternal, the infinite. But then, a voice. Someone shouting, “Mother!”

Ruth’s son Charles was darting towards them.

“Charles!” Ruth said.

Charles turned back and shouted, “Father! I say! Look who’s here.”

“Charles, dearest,” Ruth began, “why aren’t you in Yorkshire?”

“Motor smash,” her son said. “There was a change of plans—Father’s coming.”

“Why Ruth!” Mr. Wilcox cried. “What in the name of all that’s wonderful are you doing here?”

Ruth should have pretended not have heard them. It was too late now. There was no way to make her escape. Her loving family was drawing her away from all that was holy to her, from the train, from Howards End, from Margaret,

Someone made the last call for the train to Hilton—in a moment, it would leave the station, and the dream would disappear.

But then a hand took Ruth’s hand, and suddenly she was sprinting aboard the train, almost deaf to the cries of, “Mother! Wait!”

The doors closed behind them just as they took their seats. The two women turned to each other. As Ruth could say nothing, she tried to express all her feeling, her terror and gratitude, in a warm smile. Margaret was blushing furiously, but also laughing.

The train jerked violently into motion.

 “Mrs. Wilcox,” Margaret said, “I believe we have started ourselves on a tumultuous, but most fulfilling ride.”


End file.
